Page 31 of The Death of Kisses

Carrie: Turns out he was unfaithful and dishonest. I could use a wing woman, at least five drinks, and some dick to forget about him.

Me: Alright, pick me up at our usual spot around 11.

The conversation ended. I stared at the screen for a moment longer before sliding my phone into my pocket.

Charlie was still missing.

Still silent.

The thought troubled me more than it perhaps should have. Outside, rain battered the windows. Inside, my eyes drifted toward the stack of papers on the counter, settling on the name I’d been avoiding all day.

Charlotte Callahan.

A strange knot tightened in my chest.

Then I shook my head.

Tonight wasn’t about Charlie.

Tonight was about letting go.

And for the first time all week, I was determined to try.

21

BLACK BEAUTY

Present day - October 19th - Town of PineRidge - Population 5025 - 18 yr old

Knocking yanked me violently from my sleep, jolting me awake with a force that felt too real. Someone’s harsh, relentless pounding, like a fist pounding on my chest. I turned away, slamming the pillow over my ears, trying to drown out the chaos and the impossible heaviness pressing down on me. The scent clung to my mind—an unforgiving reminder of everything I wanted to bury. It was invading my thoughts, tearing through the fragile wall I’d built, leaving me standing there, helpless, waiting for the end to come.

“Open the fucking door, Charlie!” Mike’s voice roared outside the house, loud and furious.

Reluctantly, I pushed myself up and headed to the door. Gripping the handle I flung it open. There he stood—his tall silhouette blocking out the sun, a look of concern mixed with anger painted across his face.

“What the fuck?” I managed to rasp, voice thick with exhaustion and defiance.

“I came to check on you,” he said, his tone edged with a tender urgency I couldn’t ignore. “And it’s a good thing I did, because you seriously need a shower.” His nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Great, well I’m fine,” I snapped, attempting to slam the door shut in his face. But he was faster—his foot shot out, stopping me just in time.

“So, should I just leave the key in it?” he asked, his voice firm.

“What?” I breathed, caught between frustration and some flicker of vulnerability I was trying to hide.

“The bike. What do you want me to do with it? Looks like rain is moving through, so unless you want⁠—”

I shoved him out of the way, cutting him off, my heart pounding fiercely in my chest.

The bike gleamed like a beacon, shining brightly amidst the storm inside me. A strange, unexplainable feeling wrapped around my heart—a fragile tug of freedom and power that refused to be ignored.

“Where did this come from?” I asked him a mix of wonder and longing present in my voice.

He hesitated, scratching the back of his head, then said softly, “I figured you’d like your bike back.”

“Did you fix it?” I pressed.

“Yeah,” he replied simply, but there was something in his eyes—that quiet pride, that silent apology.